Monday, April 12, 2004

I do not have skin cancer. That is one thing I have going for me. I smell awful and I don't know why. That would most likely be a strike against me.

Yesterday, even though I took a shower, I could smell my b.o. very strongly on the bus ride back to New York. I wasn't sure if it was actually me or one of the items of my clothing. I smelled myself a little, arm to nose, but quit because the guy next to me was kind of cute and reading JT Leroy, which I thought might be evidence that he was a homo. This morning, I woke up naked and could still smell it, so I know that it is me and not some item of clothing. Today calls for some extra suds in the shower.

While at home, I did absoluely nothing. I watched the first two seasons of Sex and the City. That is probably about 15 hours worth of Sex and the City. It was so addictive. I could not, did not want to stop. And it made me feel so good, all the talk about boys and dating, and being dumped. It was such a guilty pleasure. On the bus, I finished Close to the Knives, and read through John Fante's The Road to Los Angeles, which I hated so much but read because it was a gift and was highly reccomended. I really wished I had JT Leroy on the bus. I sort of wanted to ask the possibly gay guy if he wanted to trade books. I didn't. I can't describe to you right now how beautfiul parts of the bus ride were, the streetlamps gliding past the fogged up windows, seeing New Jersey become filled with nothing but power plants, big hulking, steaming things, and knowing that you are almost home, almost back to New York. When I went home to Virginia, everything looks so alien, so ugly, so suburban. I am so happy to be back here. Riding through the Lincoln Tunnel, the tiles glittering as we sped past them, I was so happy, I wanted to cry.

Did I mention I don't have skin cancer? Hot.

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